Thorough Reporting
So, unintended consequences. It is always hard to perfectly predict the result of any one action. When that one action involves digging out a bot who has been missing for some millions of years from beneath a perilously fragile rock formation and leaving destruction behind when exiting -- well, you know. There are a lot of possible results, there. One possible result: unleashing a some hungry something upon an unready and unsuspecting populace, some terror from the deep that stalks soundless through the dark to prey upon the vulnerable and the helpless. Lucky for Iacon, they are neither vulnerable nor helpless, which leaves this mystery terror to be turned back at the capital's boundaries leaving behind tales of flashing teeth in the dark. It's a dead end, then, for the bot who follows a trail of gossip from Iacon's humble neighbor, Nyon. Hot Rod is at the edge of the city talking to a mech who claims to have seen something, but mostly what he seems to have seen is a lot of nothing. He's visibly frustrated: "--so, teeth, right, I got that. And no idea where it went? Come on!" Ultra Magnus would probably prefer a universe without unintended consequences. But in the absence of an orderly universe, this one will have to do. For him, the issue is not resolved until the final report is filed, stamped, and stowed, and though the lurking shadow from the deep has not invaded the capital itself, that will not be the end of the matter until it is the end of the report. Ultra Magnus has had several interviews in the course of the past few hours tracing down the coda at the end of this song. Otherwise steady, responsible-minded mechs and femmes providing incomplete reports of shadows and teeth, along with the general relieved aura of /somebody else's problem/, give Ultra Magnus a twitch in the underside of his jaw. Cold case files give him a toothache, and the idea of standing aside and simply allowing a case to become cold on basis of 'well, it went away' is so unprofessional that it grooves his scowl deep enough into his faceplate to the point it might chip something. Unanswered questions so often come down to someone not being thorough. On Magnus's watch, not being thorough is not an option. It is on abandoning a fruitless interview with a surly Autobot who never did anything to deserve this that he rolls up, massive and disgruntled, on this confrontation. Doubled tires crackling over the city street, he brakes in the slanted baffle of a headlight across them both. Hot Rod gives the startled flinch of the guilty beneath the headlight's glare. What. He wasn't doing anything. The mech at his side takes in Ultra Magnus's arrival with far less reaction. He looks bored. Bored with Hot Rod, bored with questions, bored with standing around when he could be inside, drinking or catching up on kitten videos. Cyberkittens. Whatever. "Nah, no idea. Anyway--." And he thumbs over his shoulder, on his way inside to abandon them. "Right, whatever," Hot Rod says absently. He slumps his shoulders, not even bothering to keep such a useless source of information in place. It doesn't help that the broad spectrum of the headlight on such a high-mass, high-impact vehicle resembles the flooding of a police searchlight. Ultra Magnus reverts to root mode in a manner only minimally less imposing. He observes the permissive escape of the witness, and then turns his attention more fully to Hot Rod rather than seize the other mech in pursuit. Ultra Magnus asks, "Is that witness an associate of yours?" in a tone that could almost be pleasant except for the way he says the word /associate/, like it is directly connected on file in his mind to a number of files of /persons of interest/. "I didn't do anything!" Hot Rod says immediately like the most guilty person ever. The slight look of panic on his face does nothing to further bolster his innocence. "I don't know that guy, I just heard maybe he saw a thing -- and hey, what do you mean, /witness/? What are you out here for, anyway?" Ultra Magnus gives Hot Rod a frown. It is not an expression that accompanies any sound he makes particularly beside the gentle whirr and clank as he comes to rest a little before him, and yet somehow, it is a very loud frown, communicative of all manner of disapproval. "I am conducting an investigation of unusual circumstances as falls within the scope of my duties," he informs Hot Rod. His look levels across Hot Rod's panicky features. "Naturally. And your own activities...?" DOT DOT DOT. Hot Rod squares off against Ultra Magnus without so much as a flinch. ...another flinch, anyway. He's gotten all the guilty twitches out of his system, and he finds firm footing in the face of disapproval. He throws cocksure ease in defiance. "Yeah? Well /I/ was just in the neighborhood. Listening to some gossip. Unusual circumstances, right? All kinds of gossip. Just curious. So what've you heard?" he asks, leaning in. He is obviously the interrogator here. The shift of Magnus's expression is distinct and noticeable, and yet does not shift it away from the realm of frown. It is merely a frown that carries a note of mild consternation instead of general disapproval and suspicion. Magnus is a mech of versatile frowns. Aloud, rather than do him the courtesy of answering his question, Ultra Magnus rumbles, "Would you care to fill out a witness statement ... Hot Rod?" "No." Hot Rod's smile widens as the frown twitches around and settles into new and exciting shapes. "Not unless you want to tell me what /you've/ heard, first." "The release of records to the general public is a slow and inhibited process, particular while investigations are still ongoing." It is impossible to weight certain forms of legalese with an air of quiet threat, and Hot Rod is clearly immune to it anyway; if anything, it might make him worse, like an incomplete run of antibiotics permitting a particularly obnoxious bacteria to mutate. While smiling. Ultra Magnus studies him and his smile with an air of dislike that remains, for the moment, tepid. Why are you smiling. This is an investigation. It is serious. This is going to worsen his toothache. "I am not currently in possession of a warrant for your arrest," Ultra Magnus comes out with, reassuringly. Then he looks at him, expectant. What does he expect? This is not clear. "I like how you say 'currently', big guy." Hot Rod mutates right into presumptive friendliness. The smile lingers and draws a touch crooked across his features. He comes around to stand next to rather than opposite Ultra Magnus so that they might both look the same direction, stand on the same side, be on the same team. Friend. "It's not like I'm the general public, right? You know me, I know you. Hot Rod. Ultra Magnus. I like red. You like blue. See? Definitely not general public, so let's skip the slow and inhibited and you tell me, and I tell you. I'll even fill out a witness statement," Hot Rod tempts. "As long as it's not a long form. It's a form, right? It sounds like a form." "It is a form, but it is only as long as you have something to state." Ultra Magnus gives Hot Rod an extremely skeptical sidelong look. "I leave to you how 'long' such a form would become." Yet he does not seem to immediately become forthcoming with a lot of details of his ongoing investigation. After a measurable pause, he intones with a remarkable quality of dryness for somebody that life has made the inevitable straight man in all comedy routines: "Tell me of our long acquaintance. It sounds fascinating." There's a promising gleam in Hot Rod's eye as he meets that skeptical glance head on. His smile widens in a quickly flashing grin. "What? We met ages ago -- months! Whole months!" Which, when you live millions of years ... well, never mind. Hot Rod moves on. "You with your police tape and 'do not cross' lines, me with my derring do and crossing the lines. In pursuit of truth, justice, and a better way of life for all!" "Is that what you were doing?" Ultra Magnus cannot really straighten because he already stands so straight. He measures Hot Rod with a level look. His voice is very grave and serious, rumbling in its depths as with a sound to bring to bear some of the mass vanished when he reverted to root mode. "It appeared to me that you were violating restrictions for the pleasure of having violated restrictions." "That's what /we/ were doing." Hot Rod measures short(er) and irreverent by the eye, it's true, but oh how he projects past the space he occupies: he throws his arms wide, brilliantly colored and eye-catching with the flames emblazoned on his chest, and he rocks forward on his feet, caught up in his words. "We were both after the same things, then, now. You should know better than to get caught up in appearances." He levels a disappointed look at Ultra Magnus. "I bet you've heard some rumors about some stuff around here. I have too. See?" "I was not violating any restrictions," Ultra Magnus states with patient firmness, "nor will I now. For example, despite personal knowledge of some of your activities that I have upon information and belief," did he really just use upon information and belief in casual conversation, god, lawyers. "--I will not arrest you today, as I have stated I do not currently have in my possession a warrant for your arrest." Having made this clear, there is almost, almost a shadow of amusement in Magnus's level look, but this is a mouth that is so far allergic to smiles that the thought itself could make him break out in hives, if robots were subject to skin conditions. "Your supposition that I am investigating reports of unusual activity in this area is correct. As I have already informed you, I am not at liberty to discuss the contents of an ongoing investigation with the general public. Or indeed, with a suspect." His gaze widens slightly in its steady weight on Hot Rod, as if there is just something about him that defines him as /suspect/, without referent to any crime in particular; like he is, himself, a walking field of reasonable suspicion just waiting to blossom into probable cause at any moment. "I find it curious that you are so interested in these unusual happenings. Perhaps you were involved." His tone modulates, gentleness almost in courtesy: "Would you like to fill out a witness statement so as to clear yourself of any suspicious activity or wrongdoing in the area?" Measure by measure, Hot Rod leans away: arrest, warrant, arrest, suspect, /involved/, /suspicious activity or wrongdoing/--! "Hey, hey. Look, you're ruining our moment. It's okay, see, your long acquaintance with me gives you, uh, information and belief that I am totally in the clear." Is he using that wrong? He's probably using the wrong. He's probably trampling merrily over the corpse of proper usage. GOOD. "I wasn't here, so there's really nothing to witness. I've just heard maybe what you've heard, and I gotta say--." Hot Rod breaks off and glances down Iacon's beautifully kept streets, it's pristine buildings, it's wonderfully effective law enforcement. His gaze lingers longest on Ultra Magnus. "Something Iacon can shrug off, Nyon can't. So." He looks remarkably sober and unsmiley. "I am not interested in permitting anything to be shrugged off," Ultra Magnus states with a weighty firmness that dismisses location and boundary lines, an attitude that may be surprising considering just how many charts exist defining borders and areas of interest. "As a member of the Diplomatic Corps, my advisory jurisdiction is planetary in nature. Any authorities in Nyon would be welcome to provide their assistance if that is, indeed, the current location of the suspect. Presuming that it /is/ a suspect, which I do not currently concede based on limited witness reporting." This is a very longwinded way of saying that he almost agrees with Hot Rod, without actually saying that he agrees with Hot Rod, and certainly not clearing Hot Rod of any suspicion whatsoever. He considers him for a moment, and then adds, "I do not believe you are part of any Nyon authority that might be investigating this matter but you may be able to aid the law in its inquiry. My ... long acquaintance ... with you leads me to little other /experiential/ belief than that you are a troublemaker," Magnus says, like the charmer that he is. "Possibly chronically. As well as self-evidently a busybody." He almost says busybody in a way that rhymes with harrumph, if that's even possible. "Though I do not believe I have enough evidence to call you a vigilante." Also, don't call him a vigilante, it sounds more heroic than you mean, Magnus. "/Ha/!" says Hot Rod of the authorities in Nyon. He gives Ultra Magnus a look that weighs between thoughtful and wary as he considers this reach of jurisdiction. As he continues, he shakes it off to assume wide-eyed innocence. He assumes it /poorly/. The look just doesn't fit. "Hey, what's it take to be a vigilante, anyway?" He fails to deny troublemaker, but he /does/ look offended at being called a busybody. "Unlawful interference with police activities," Ultra Magnus states. He eyes Hot Rod, possibly because he is becoming aware that giivng him the word itself might have been a mistake. "Obstruction of justice," he says, like this is the worst of all possible crimes, and maybe, to Ultra Magnus, it is. "What justice?" Hot Rod promptly follows up. "The--" Ultra Magnus begins to explain, and then he stops. He looks at Hot Rod. He considers. He says, "Vigilantes attempt to apprehend dangerous criminals on their own without support and without following law or procedure. It is dangerous to the vigilante and dangerous to the suspect. It endangers the function of society and the chance of a fair trial, to which all suspects are entitled." He is very serious and very earnest about this as if by gravity alone he can weigh down the likelihood of this going awry (ha). "In any event," Magnus says, "if you are not interested in aiding the law, you are likely to obstruct it by no greater malfeasance than getting in the way." "Ha." Hot Rod throws his head back and quote-unquote laughs. "Ha ha ha fair trial, come on, Blue. How about when authorities are the ones /helping/ the criminals, huh? What about when the danger's to the innocents, forget about the vigilantes, the suspects." Word by word, he drives his threat assessment up in Ultra Magnus's databanks. He just can't help it. It'd be smarter to walk away, be quiet, but neither of those things are really very /Hot Rod/. Ultra Magnus says with an unshakable weight to his voice: "The law does not aid crime, Hot Rod. By definition, the law is the bulwark that stands between the innocent and chaos. In troubled times, it is the last bulwark." "Aw, man, you're just making me feel bad for you," says Hot Rod with obvious but not unfriendly pity. How does it feel to be condescended to by a pipsqueak? Great, right? "You should come see what the law's really doing some time." "I believe that my vantage point on that is better than yours," Ultra Magnus officiouses with again more of that particular dryness. He turns on a weighted clank of his foot against the ground, moving back toward the neatly aligned plating of the Iacon street itself. "In any event, as you are not interested in being constructive, I will leave you to your misguided conspiracy theories in peace." "Yeah, I bet." That doesn't even make sense, Hot Rod. He throws the words like a challenge and makes a big show of turning his back on Ultra Magnus, spoiler quivering in indignation. "Let me know when you change your mind -- and good hunting, this time, anyway." "I am interested in claims backed by evidence," Ultra Magnus rumbles in the secure certainty that Hot Rod won't give him any. His root form melts and expands rapidly into the heavy mass of the huge armored truck, and leaves him trundling forward again in search of his next ... victim. After all, thoroughness beckons.